A NIGHT OUT WITH: Dana Vachon; Made in Manhattan

By MELENA RYZIK

Published: March 25, 2007

FEW 28-year-olds can pull off a pocket square. Dana Vachon comes close. Of course, he has the pedigree. Born in Greenwich, Conn., raised in Chappaqua, N.Y., a graduate of Duke: all noted on the jacket of his first novel, ''Mergers and Acquisitions,'' a roman ?lef about his stint as a JP Morgan analyst, which is scheduled to come out on April 5. And, of course, he has sold the movie rights, to the production company Anonymous Content, of ''Babel'' fame.

So when he appeared at a re-relaunch party for Radar magazine (which excerpted the novel) at the clubby Beatrice Inn, his jeans as crisp as his blue-striped French-cuff shirt and white kerchief, he could be forgiven for looking a bit like the Alex P. Keaton of the liberal blogger set. Pivoting on his loafers to greet friends, including the editors Maer Roshan and Elizabeth Spiers, he spoke in plummy yacht club tones, suggesting that at any moment he might slap someone on the back and say, 'Right, old chap?' Except in his case it would be more like, 'Right, old dude?'

''I once did the worm across the Temple of Dendur,'' he might say, and it turns out, he did.

Mr. Vachon, a notorious night owl, was due for a late dinner on the Upper East Side. In the cab with his friend Sara Lustig, he fretted about staying out: he had to get to the Brazilian consulate first thing the next day to pick up a visa. It was not the sort of appointment the blogger turned novelist and freelance writer was inclined to keep.

''I have a thing about bureaucracy,'' he said. ''I lost my license in like 2001, and I've never gotten it back.''

Meanwhile, Ms. Lustig, 26, was fretting about being recognized as her literary alter ego, Sophie Dvornik, a sexual exhibitionist. Mr. Vachon's book is populated by his friends and colleagues. It is a snapshot of a small but (self-)important slice of life in Manhattan -- ''the island,'' in Danaspeak -- larded with references to Lauren Conrad, Pete Doherty and Marquee and the ever-shifting standing of hors d'oeuvres at cocktail parties. (Pity the host who still serves chicken satay.)

Jay McInerney himself nearly called Mr. Vachon the new Jay McInerney. And guessing who's based on whom has become a parlor game among young, connected Dealbreaker.com readers.

Actually, it's not that hard. At Le Bilboquet (several appearances as itself), Mr. Vachon joined a group that included his finance buddy Alex Hurst, 28 (in spirit, nearly every page); his fashion friend CeCe Barfield, whose real-life pronouncements (''customs people in small countries can be creepy'') deftly mirror those of her fictional counterpart (also named CeCe); and his soft-spoken brother, Christian, 30, a writer, who admitted he had not finished reading the book to see if he was in it.

Mr. Vachon ordered steak tartare and ate it on white toast. ''If you close your eyes, it's just like a taco,'' he said. The talk ran to Latin American banking crises and exotic travel. (''We went to Six Flags,'' Mr. Hurst said.) Several bottles of white wine later -- ever gentlemanly, Mr. Vachon made sure each glass had a splash for the final toast -- he was somehow persuaded to stay out.

Back to the Beatrice they went, and the more Mr. Vachon drank, the less plummy he became, even confessing that he worried about his feckless generation. ''I don't know how history is going to look on us,'' he said.

''Mergers,'' he added, is meant to have a waning-empire feel, ?a ''Satyricon,'' but his next book will be a pastoral: it's set in Westchester.